A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1587 - 1587: War at the Gates - Part 11

In that instant, the dragon truly showed what it was, and why it ought to be feared. Oliver could see the claws rise up, ready to scratch him across the face, and send him flying, in that single fearful swing. That which he had so supposed would happen from the very instant that they had crossed swords.

"All coalesces," he had to remind himself, seeing how quickly, despite their careful movements, they had ended right up in the heart of a trap.

Again that mighty dragon, when the claw did still come for him, It was such an effort to not grow towards the overwhelm that Oliver always so relied upon. It was an effort to keep himself hidden, and his will dampened, even knowing that he would soon enough be defeated.

He spied it, just the barest of something. His usual instinct to simply charge, and go all out, was quashed. It was mildness that took over in its place. In place of his own will, it was the will of that mighty dragon that he dared to use. He dared to borrow just the slightest fragment of its aggression, and draw it towards him.

"Minister of Blades!" He said, quite loudly. "I have a problem that I need your assistance with!"

For how dangerous their predicament was, and how swiftly those cavalrymen were bearing down on the hundredman strong force that stood in their way, the order was given with such a terrifyingly remarkable calm. It only contained the barest hint of Command. Though it was spoken loudly, it seemed a rather quiet order for a man like Oliver Patrick to deliver.

The Minister of Blades, and all spearmen, departed, without word. Lord Yoreholder knew his way around war, and he did not need an explanation as to what Oliver wanted for him. He fell into his role seemingly – for that was what he was trained to do as a Sword. To guess at the intentions of his General, even when that General attempted to disguise them from everyone, even himself.

The cavalrymen that stood by their lonesome instinctively drew towards Oliver, and their reinforcing men, shortening the distance that they would have to travel in order to see them defended.

It was a close done thing, but by the time the cavalry were near enough to cross blades, there was a wall of Yoreholder spearmen waiting for them, along with the Minister of Blades himself at the front, Olvier Patrick, and the young Gar.

Lady Blackthorn moved to join them, but Verdant held out his arm to stop her before her horse could ride past. He shook his head at her, earning a glare. "My Lord does not wish us there. We are needed in the centre."

"How do you know? He has not said," Blackthorn said back.

"Ah, he didn't say, did he?" Verdant said, throwing her own words back at her, with the cold scalpel of logic that he was so fond of using. "Unless you suppose yourself to be the Minister of Blades now."

She didn't look happy about it, but she did stay in place. As did the bowmen under Yoreholder and Nila. They altered their position to match the path taken by the incoming enemy cavalrymen, and by the orders of Professor Yoreholder, they sent a volley down on them, killing or wounding over a hundred men in the process, but against a charge of fifteen hundred, that loss did little to slow the tide. General Tussle said as much.

He nodded to himself, seeing the men take the volley, and charge straight through it. "Ah, yes, the young Ser Patrick does what he can. An admirable defence. But he is forced into combat now, through our tactic. As soon as the numerically inferior force is locked into place, then the superior numbers can be allowed to have their effect."

General Fitzer had his lips twisted, but he didn't seem to be disapproving of their action. Prince Hendrick was close to nodding his satisfaction. He hadn't like the etherealness that Oliver Patrick had before, where he had seemed impossible to grab, and impossible to touch. At least now they had him locked in place, with swords crossed against him…

Still, why was it that seeing the results of the initial charge, he felt himself frowning all the harder?

Their cavalry, fifteen-hundred strong, had run straight into the wall of spears that the Minister of Blades had seen set up. Naturally, the first rank had not gone far in overcoming them. The second, however, started to push the spearmen by, by sheer momentum. The corpses of their comrades, and the dying horsemen in front of them, provided a mass that mere men could not hope to stop, especially when their only weapons were already occupied by the skewering of another animal.

The two forces saw their collision, and a melee broke out. A few gaps opened up in the line of spearmen, that the cavalrymen went charging down. Their superior numbers fanned out like a giant puddle of red, wearing those Emerson colours, attacking all that they could.

From Oliver, there were no shouts, no rallying cries. He didn't raise his sword in excitement, nor bellow to his men that they would crush the enemy right here.

Even with that cavalry force right in front of him, he dared not summon up the thought, "what if I were to crush them right here?"

That was a thought for a normal man, in a different place, a far superior position to him. If he were to think such a thing, and be that greedy, in the presence of a dragon, he would be dead before the motive could even spread to him. More closely he guarded his heart than ever, seeing that hope in front of him.

When he swung his sword, he did so with all the casualness that he had learned to fight Gar with. He saw the men crumble before his blade, in their tens, and in their twenties, he toppled horseman, after horseman, hardly moving from his position. Around him, from the Minister of Blades, and from Gar, the result was just as devastating.

It was a monstrous mess, a giant hole cleaved through the enemy number, the results of the power of a mere three individuals combined. But these were men of the Fourth Boundary.